_ON THE HILLSIDE._
IT was breakfast-time on the morning after Claude went "home."
Mr. and Mrs. Malden were sitting together in the library, with the sea
gleaming and flashing in the sun, which shone directly in at the front
windows.
The blinds were partly lowered, but more to keep the dazzling rays off,
than because of the conventional custom. Mrs. Malden had instantly
decided that her loved invalid must not be kept for days in darkness
for any such reason.
They sat almost in silence hand in hand. To have no child with them,
no child to care for and nurse even, came down on Mrs. Malden's loving
heart with a great blank of loneliness—a sense of an empty lap, which
somehow made her feel forlorn. She did not cry, for no tears had come
since the little spirit had fled, but she went about her usual morning
duties to her husband, with a quiet sort of patience which surprised
herself.
"Not here—with Jesus," she kept on repeating softly, when the thought
of that closed room came over her.
So the husband and wife sat hand in hand, eating but little, but
feeling refreshed by the quiet meal.
"How peaceful it is," said Mr. Malden, glancing out on the sparkling
sea.
"Yes, very."
"Have you telegraphed to Norwich?"
"Yes, that is all done. Uncle Chantry has been very kind to come over
so early to help us."
"Very kind."
"Everyone has been so good to us."
"Yet you seem, my love, as if you were still perplexed."
"So I am," she answered, turning towards him. "I cannot see my way to
arrange about the children, and all that must be done when the funeral
is over."
"There is no hurry for that, love."
"No, no, but one cannot help thinking."
"'The meek will He guide in judgment,'" he said softly.
"I am sure of that, but I am so afraid of making up plans of my own,
and dwelling on them, till I think them the very best that can be done."
"Yes; energetic people are apt to do that. But I often think Moses
was energetic enough, and yet God said of him that he was the most
teachable man on earth."
"Teachable?"
"Ready to do as he was told, not one who put up the shoulder when a
direction was given. And so, being teachable, the Lord could come and
speak face to face with him."
Mrs. Malden pondered, resting her chin on her hand, looking out over
the sea.
"We must ask to be guided," she said at length. "It all seems very
complicated to me. There are the children to be got out of the house
while it is fumigated; you and I must go somewhere too."
"One step at a time," he answered, stroking her hand tenderly. "We
have not that to do to-day, nor for many days. As all that becomes
necessary, we shall be shown how to do it. People often make mistakes
by stepping before the time."
"I know it," she answered. "I will wait."
Just as they had finished breakfast, the maid knocked at the door.
When Mrs. Malden opened it, on a dish before her lay a beautiful little
wreath of ivy, with one single white hyacinth lying across the middle.
"With Mrs. Chantry's love, ma'am," said the servant.
And Mrs. Malden took it from her hand and brought it to her husband's
side.
By the hyacinth was a card, on which was written,—
"It is well with the child."
One glance at the words was enough; the bereaved mother burst into
tears and buried her face in her hands. The child that since she
was "comforted" last night she had thought of as being with Jesus,
triumphant over death and pain, was by these simple words brought back,
as it were, to her arms, and now lay in them as the tiny babe, as the
tender little child, as the bright boy, as the dying little son.
"It is well with the child! Oh, yes, it is well," she acknowledged,
"but—but I have not got him here."
She wept very much for a few minutes, and then again patience and trust
reasserted themselves. She began once more to think of the victory
gained, the strife over, the goal reached. "It is well with the child."
She dried her eyes, and laid her cheek against her husband's without
speaking.
"You will be better now, Ella, my love," he whispered tenderly. "Take
this in and lay it at his feet. It was very loving of Greta to think of
it."
Thus, the days passed away, till on the Thursday, Claude's small coffin
was carried away to its resting-place under the trees by the old church.
There the sea breezes swept over the new turf, and made solemn music
between the branches of the spreading fir-trees which hung overhead.
Mrs. Malden had sent in to the cottage an earnest request that no one
would come to the house, or follow her darling's funeral carriage.
Mrs. Chantry had answered that she at any rate should be in the
churchyard, but would not, for the sake of her children, come near the
grave. She would turn homewards, she said, when the service was over.
So when Mrs. Malden stood alone on the breezy hill, by the newly-turned
mould, she saw advancing from the other side of the churchyard her
sister Greta and Alick. She saw them without looking; for her eyes were
resting on the flower-covered casket which had already been lowered,
thinking of the precious body within, which was to wait there till the
resurrection.
When she raised her eyes again, some one tall had come round and taken
his place by her side, and with a start, she looked up at her step-son,
Courtenay Malden.
He only whispered:
"Let me, mother. Margaret sent me."
And she felt inexpressibly relieved to think they had got him home
again.
The blessed service—blessed when read over those who sleep in Jesus—was
over.
Mrs. Chantry and Alick, as agreed, turned homewards, with only one wave
of the hand as adieu, and then Courtenay and Mrs. Malden waited in
silence till all was completed.
After that, they slowly walked along the path and left the place, which
ever after to her seemed as a part of her self.
"Courtenay dear, ought you?" she said gently, as they turned into the
lane.
"There could be but little risk in the open air, mother."
"Perhaps not, but I would not have you run any for the world."
"It has been a comfort to me, mother."
"Dear boy," she answered in her old phrase, "we both understand now, as
neither of us could six months ago."
"Yes, Margaret wished me particularly to come. She would have been here
herself, but that I laid my commands upon her. She is not very strong."
"When did you come home, Courtenay? I had no idea—"
"This morning, an hour ago. I drove straight here."
"How did you hear? My dear boy, my heart is lighter since I saw you."
"Dear mother, I am so thankful I was in time. I had written to Alick
to prepare him for our arrival; because a telegram at Gibraltar had
informed us about dear little Claude, and I told him what hotel we
would call at on our way through. Aunt Greta wrote to us there, to
bring us home quickly. We arrived in London last night, and came on by
the first train this morning."
"God is very good to me. Oh, Courtenay, I wish you could come in and
see your father, but that is impossible!"
"We shall soon arrange that. Mother, as we have so little time to talk,
would it distress you to-day to discuss plans?"
"Not in the least, my dear boy."
"I would not, only that we cannot so well meet now, and here we are
together."
"It will not cause me a pang. Why should it? I am thanking my heavenly
Father at every step that He has brought you back to us."
"Well then, mother, Margaret and I have thought about it all, and we
want you all to come at once to The Towers, while Sunnyside is made
right."
"But the risk—oh, no, dear Courtenay."
"There is not much to risk now, mother. There are no children—" He
stopped, a spasm passing over his face. Then he went on, more softly:
"The little ones, Alick tells me, have never been near the infection,
have been out in the air with Martha from morning till night, have
never even entered the passages, but have gone up and down by the back
staircase."
"Yes, that is all true."
"Then they can come without an instant's thought?"
"But your father and I are different."
"Yes, but not to be left out, mother."
He looked in her face, smiling one of his old smiles. "I do not see
how," she said, her eyes filling at that look.
"But we do. We propose that you should put on fresh clothes, or
whatever disinfecting is considered necessary nowadays, and go into the
children's part of your house for a few days. Then you can migrate over
to The Towers for a long visit, while I have Sunnyside done up from top
to bottom."
"Oh, Courtenay!"
"We have thought it all over."
"Indeed you have. But, dear boy, supposing either of the children gets
it, in spite of all our precautions?"
"Then that's in God's hands. We are only doing our obvious duty, we can
trust Him for the rest."
Mrs. Malden walked on, thinking it all over. That her heart was filled
with grateful love, she knew, but felt that she must not let her
feelings blind her judgment.
"Come, mother," he said at last, "have not you and my dear father asked
to be guided about all this?"
"Indeed we have."
"And have you not asked that some way might be found in this
difficulty?"
"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.
"Do you not always?"
"Yes, you know we do."
"Then you have not omitted it this time, I expect."
"Courtenay, I was able to leave it with Him. Your father reminded me
that it was the meek He would guide in judgment, and the meek He would
teach His way. And so I asked Him to make me meek and teachable, so
that He might act for me."
"Oh, mother," he answered, "when you tell me that, it makes me more
happy than ever in our plan! Do try to be, too."
"Your father and I must think it over, dear boy, but it seems
everything that could be wished. Dear Courtenay, you must let me thank
you, even if—"
"You can thank me best by coming, mother."
"I will be at the stile at six o'clock this evening if I can. Will you
come there to speak to me, dear?"
They had by this time reached the gate at Sunnyside. Courtenay opened
it for her to pass through, saying, "I will be there, mother; and tell
my dear father that I know how to make him comfortable, do I not? He
must not be afraid to come."
"It would not be that—"
"Mother dear, just ask to be guided about this, as you did about the
other, and then, if it is His plan, you will see your way to accept it."
She raised her eyes to his face. "I will, Courtenay," she answered.
And then turned homewards to her husband, remembering suddenly, with
thankfulness, what a joy to him it would be on this sorrowful day to
hear that his beloved son, Courtenay, had returned to them.
"Why was I anxious?" she asked herself. "He has made the meek to
inherit the earth to-day.
"'All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's.'"
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[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after
righteousness: for they shall be filled."]